Looking at pictures like a flipbook, of other, sure I see. They look too, at the flickering, like its real. It’s not. It’s past. A memory of, not real, but history (his story, her story). What if you could see beyond the mystery (the my story), beyond the mirror, the need to see the self back, becoming dis-enfranchised from the mind’s idea of, and without connection to the pictures, the flip book, look at the current picture, the now, being nowhere (now here) in the present story, without history, without pictures? What if you knew yourself as the light, flickering, first-press joy, you? What if we lived like that? What if we loved like that?